The Trials of Morrigan Crow Page 8

  “So.” Jupiter rocked on his heels, hands in pockets, as they waited for the elevator to arrive. “Morrigan… Morrigan.”

  “Yes?” She wondered if he was going to tell her about the Wundrous Society at last.

  He looked up. “Hmm? Oh, just thinking about what we can do with Morrigan. You know, for a nickname. Morrie… Morro… No. Moz. Mozza. Mozzie?”

  The elevator doors pinged open. Jupiter ushered her inside and pressed the button for the ninth floor.

  “Definitely not,” Morrigan said, bristling. “I don’t want a nickname.”

  “Course you do, everyone wants—” He was interrupted by a squeal, a crackling sound, and the clearing of a throat coming from a horn-shaped amplifier mounted in the corner.

  “Good morning, ladies, gentlemen, and Wunimals. Could the guest who left four alpacas in the conservatory please collect them at his or her earliest convenience? Please call for Kedgeree if you require assistance. Thank you.”

  “Everyone wants a nickname,” Jupiter continued after the announcement. “Mine, for example, is the Great and Honorable Captain Sir Jupiter Amantius North, Esquire.”

  “Did you make that up yourself?”

  “Bits of it.”

  “It’s too long for a nickname,” Morrigan said. “Nicknames are like Jim or Rusty. The Great and Honorable Captain Sir Thingy takes about a year to say.”

  “That’s why everyone calls me Jupiter for short,” he said. The elevator shuddered to a halt and they stepped out. “You’re right, shorter is usually best. Let’s see… Mo. Mor… Mog. Mog!”

  “Mog?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Mog is a great nickname!” Jupiter insisted. He rolled the word around in his mouth as they walked down the long hallway. “Mog. Moggers. The Mogster. It’s so versatile.”

  Morrigan made a face. “It sounds like something an animal vomits up and leaves on your doorstep. Are you going to tell me about the Wundrous Society now?”

  “Soon, Mog, but—”

  “Morrigan.”

  “—first, the grand tour.”

  The Smoking Parlor wasn’t a room where guests were allowed to smoke pipes and cigars, to Morrigan’s relief, but in fact a room that emitted great rolling clouds of colored, scented smoke that seemed to pour from the walls themselves. This afternoon it was a murky green sage smoke (“to promote the art of philosophization,” Jupiter told her), but a schedule on the door informed her that later that evening the smoke would change to honeysuckle (“for romance”) and, late at night, to lavender (“to aid the sleepless”).

  Sprawled dramatically on a love seat was a very small, very pale man dressed all in black, wrapped in a velvet cloak. His eyes were closed and thickly lined with kohl, his mouth downturned, and he had an air of gothic tragedy about him. Morrigan liked him instantly.

  “Afternoon, Frank.”

  “Ah, Jove,” said the little man, cracking open one mournful eye. “There you are. I was just thinking about death.”

  “Of course you were.” Jupiter sounded unimpressed.

  “And the songs I want to sing at the Hallowmas party this year.”

  “It’s almost a year away, and I said you could sing a song, singular, not songs, plural.”

  “And the scarcity of fresh towels in my room.”

  “You get a fresh towel every morning, Frank.”

  “But I want two fresh towels every morning,” Frank said with a note of petulance. “I need one for my hair.”

  Morrigan stifled a giggle.

  “Talk to Fenestra about it. Splendid job last night, by the way—our grandest Eventide yet.” Jupiter leaned down to whisper to Morrigan. “Frank’s my official party planner. Roof-Raiser-in-Chief. Best in the business, but we mustn’t tell him that, or he’ll look for a job someplace fancier.”

  Frank smirked drowsily. “I already know I’m the best, Jove. I’m still here because there is no place fancier—you’re the only hotelier in the Free State who’d never impose a budget on my genius.”

  “I do impose a budget on your genius, Frank, but you always ignore it. Speaking of which, who approved the booking of Iguanarama?”

  “You did.”

  “No, I said to book Lizamania, the Iguanarama tribute band. They’re a quarter of the price.”

  “Naturally. They have a quarter of the talent,” huffed Frank. “Why are you here, anyway? Can’t you see I’m in recovery?”

  “I’ve brought someone special to meet you. This”—Jupiter clapped a hand on Morrigan’s shoulder—“is Morrigan Crow.”

  Frank sat up very suddenly, his eyes narrowing at Morrigan. “Ah. You’ve brought me a gift,” he said. “Young blood. This pleases me.” He snapped his teeth. Morrigan tried not to laugh. She suspected he aimed to terrify, and it seemed sporting to go along with it.

  “No, Frank.” Jupiter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, between you and Fen… look, she’s not for biting. No one in the Deucalion is for biting. We’ve been over this.”

  Frank closed his eyes and lay back down, looking sullen. “Then why bother me?”

  “Thought you might like to meet my candidate, that’s all.”

  “Candidate for what?” asked Frank, yawning.

  “For the Wundrous Society.”

  Frank’s eyes flew open. He sat up, observing Morrigan with renewed interest. “Well. Isn’t this a curious turn of events. Jupiter North, sworn lifelong nonpatron. Taking a candidate at last.” He rubbed his hands together, looking gleeful. “Oh, won’t people talk.”

  “People do love to talk.”

  Morrigan looked from Jupiter to Frank and back again. “Talk about what?”

  But Jupiter didn’t answer.

  Had he really sworn never to become a patron? She couldn’t help feeling pleased by that. Jupiter North, apparently beloved and admired by all, had chosen her as his first-ever candidate. She wished she knew why.

  Frank was eyeing her suspiciously, as if he too had his doubts. “Delighted, Morrigan. May I ask you a question?”

  Jupiter stepped in. “No, you may not.”

  “Oh, please, Jove, just one.”

  “Just none.”

  “Morrigan, what’s your—”

  “You won’t even get one fresh towel tomorrow if you keep this up.”

  “But I only want to know—”

  “Lie down and enjoy the sage, Frank.” The walls had started rolling out fresh clouds of green smoke. “Martha will be around soon with the tea cart.” Frank harrumphed and, turning his back on them, threw himself down sulkily onto the love seat.

  Jupiter guided Morrigan through the opaque fog to the door, speaking quietly into her ear. “Frank’s a bit dramatic, but he’s a good egg. Only dwarf vampire in Nevermoor, you know.” Morrigan detected a note of pride in his voice. She looked back at Frank through the greenish haze, feeling slightly alarmed—had she really just been talking to a vampire? “Not very popular in the dwarf community or the vampire community, sadly, mostly on account of—”

  “Vampire dwarf,” Frank corrected him from the other side of the room. “There is a difference, you know. You might think about getting some sensitivity training if you’re going to run a hotel.”

  “—mostly on account of his moodiness, I expect. Imagine being too moody for other vampires,” Jupiter finished in a whisper, and then called over his shoulder, “Their loss, Frank. Their loss.”

  Outside the Smoking Parlor they passed Martha the maid pushing a cart full of tea things and delicious-looking treats. With a wink, she slipped a pink-iced cake into Morrigan’s hand as she went by, and Jupiter made a great show of pretending not to notice.

  Morrigan had just taken a large, heavenly mouthful when a young man in a driver’s cap and uniform burst through the elevator doors. He had dark brown skin and wide, worried eyes.

  “Captain North!” he shouted, running down the hall. Morrigan froze; an unhappy effect of her curse was that she knew exactly what bad news looked like. “Kedgeree sent me,
sir. There’s been another messenger from the Transportation Authority. They need you to come at once.” The driver took off his cap and ran his fingers nervously along the brim.

  Martha abandoned her cart and dashed over to join them, looking stricken. “Not another accident on the Wunderground?”

  “Another—” Jupiter began, shaking his head. “What do you mean, another accident?”

  “It was in the news this morning,” Martha replied. “A train derailed on the Bedtime Line shortly after dawn and crashed into the side of a tunnel.”

  “Where?” demanded Jupiter.

  “Somewhere between the Blackstock and Fox Street stations. They said dozens were injured.” Martha stood perfectly still, clutching her throat, and added quietly, “No deaths, thank goodness.”

  Morrigan felt something twist in her center. Here it was—the catastrophe she’d been awaiting. Hello, Nevermoor, she thought, biting her lip. Morrigan Crow has arrived. She watched Jupiter, waiting for an accusation, for him to turn on her with suspicion.

  But her patron only frowned. “The Wunderground doesn’t derail. It’s never derailed.”

  “Martha’s right, sir,” said the driver. “It’s all over the papers, on the radio. Some people are saying… they’re saying it could be the work of”—he stopped to swallow, dropping his voice to a whisper—“of the Wundersmith, but… but that’s…”

  “Nonsense.”

  “That’s what I said, sir, but… it’s such a nasty accident, people are bound to think—”

  “Could it really be the Wundersmith?” Martha interrupted, her face draining of color.

  Jupiter scoffed. “Given that he’s been gone for more than a hundred years, Martha, I rather think not. Don’t let the scaremongers get to you.”

  “What’s the Wundersmith?” Morrigan asked. Could there be someone else to blame? Someone who wasn’t her, for once? She was ashamed of how her heart lifted at the thought.

  “Fairy tale and superstition,” Jupiter told her with a resolute nod, and turned back to his driver. “Charlie, the Wunderground is self-propelling, it’s self-maintaining. It’s driven by Wunder, for goodness’ sake, Wunder doesn’t have accidents.”

  Charlie lifted one shoulder, looking equally baffled. “I know. The Transportation Authority wouldn’t say what you’re needed for, sir, but I’ve sent word to the coach house to fuel a motor. We can be ready to leave in four minutes.”

  Jupiter looked dismayed. “Very well, then.” He turned to Morrigan while Charlie ran ahead. “Sorry about this, Mog. Rubbish timing. I didn’t even get to show you the duck pond or the Things-in-Jars Room.”

  “What’s the Things-in-Jars Room?”

  “It’s where I keep all my things in jars.”

  “You were going to tell me about the Wundrous Society…”

  “I know, and I will, but it’ll have to wait. Martha”—he waved the young maid closer—“could you give Morrigan a little tour? Just the highlights.”

  Martha brightened. “Of course, sir. I’ll take her to meet Dame Chanda Kali, she’s rehearsing in the Music Salon.” She put one arm around Morrigan’s shoulders, giving her a friendly squeeze. “Then we’ll go out to the stables and peek in on the ponies, how about that?”

  “Perfect!” Jupiter said enthusiastically, running to where Charlie was holding the elevator doors. “Martha, you’re a treasure. Mog, I’ll see you later.”

  Then the doors closed, and he was gone.

  Morrigan recognized Dame Chanda Kali at once. Not by the powerful soprano voice that was echoing in the rafters of the Music Salon when Martha and Morrigan arrived, nor by the deep reddish-brown color of her skin or the glossy black hair rolling down her back in thick waves, flecked with silver. It was Dame Chanda’s robe she recognized—long, flowing silk in bright pink and orange, encrusted with tiny glittering beadwork all over. It was almost identical in style to the purple silk gown the woman had worn at the rooftop party. Dame Chanda, Morrigan realized, was that first valiant soul to have leapt from the balustrade in celebration of Morningtide.

  Now she stood in the center of the Music Salon, performing an aria for an unlikely audience: two dozen fluttering bluebirds, a mother fox with her two babies, and several bushy-tailed red squirrels, all of whom appeared to have wandered in through the wide-open windows and were gazing at the singer with deep adoration.

  “Dame Chanda is a grand high soprano and Dame Commander of the Order of Woodland Whisperers,” Martha whispered loudly to Morrigan over the music and birdsong. Morrigan spied a golden W pin just like Jupiter’s hidden among the beadwork of Dame Chanda’s gown. “She’s a member of the Wundrous Society herself, but she lives here at the Deucalion. She’s performed in all the grand opera houses of the Free State, although some of them aren’t very pleased when this lot turn up—they can make a dreadful mess,” she said, indicating the woodland creatures who were apparently helplessly drawn to the sound of Dame Chanda’s voice.

  The music ended, and Martha and Morrigan burst into applause. Dame Chanda took a bow and smiled warmly, shooing the wildlife out the window. “Martha, my angel, I should have you perform all my introductions. You do it so charmingly.”

  The maid blushed. “Dame Chanda, this is Morrigan Crow. She’s—”

  “Jupiter’s candidate, yes, I’ve heard,” said Dame Chanda, turning her dazzling gaze on Morrigan. It felt like being caught in the beam from a lighthouse. Like speaking to royalty. “News travels fast at the Deucalion. Everybody’s talking about you, Miss Crow. Is it true, then, darling? You’re to take the trials?”

  Morrigan nodded, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. Standing before this remarkable woman, she felt like a street urchin.

  This is what a Wundrous Society member looks like, she thought. Beautiful and stately, like Dame Chanda. Interesting and admired, like Jupiter. What must they think of her, she wondered—Martha and Dame Chanda and Fenestra and Frank? Were they already whispering about what a terrible choice Jupiter had made?

  “How extraordinary,” the opera singer breathed. “Our Jupiter, a patron at last! I’m glad to know you, Miss Morrigan, for you must truly be somebody wonderful. Are you excited about your first trial, sweet girl?”

  “Er. Yes?” Morrigan lied, unconvincingly.

  “Of course, you’ll have the Wundrous Welcome first. Has Jupiter arranged a fitting?”

  Morrigan looked at her blankly. What in the world was a Wundrous Welcome? “A… a fitting?”

  “With his seamstress? You must have a new dress, my dear. First impressions are important.” She paused. “I think perhaps I’ll have my own costumier see to this.”

  Martha beamed at Morrigan, wide-eyed, as if this were truly the greatest honor Dame Chanda could bestow, and not a mysterious, terrifying prospect.

  “Naturally Jupiter gets away with his own… interesting sartorial choices, because he’s so handsome,” Dame Chanda continued. “But we cannot inflict his dreadful taste on you. Not for such an important event.

  “The Wundrous Welcome isn’t just a garden party, Miss Morrigan. It is, most unfortunately, a garden full of people judging everything about you. The other candidates and patrons will be sizing you up as their competition. It is very intense.”

  Morrigan’s insides were shriveling. Competition? Judgment? Jupiter’s letter had mentioned that her entry into the Society wasn’t guaranteed, and that she had to make it through the entrance trials.

  But… deep down, Morrigan had thought after everything she’d been through to get to Nevermoor, after escaping the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow and getting past border control and—and cheating death, for goodness’ sake—that perhaps the hard part was over. Nobody had mentioned a very intense garden party. (Morrigan could think of at least twelve disasters she and her curse could bring to a garden party, not even counting bumblebee stings and hay fever.)

  Dame Chanda seemed to sense that she had hit a nerve. She affected a breezy air, waving off the topic as if it were a fly. “Oh, no need to
worry, darling. Just be yourself. Now, if I may ask… we’re all dying to know”—she leaned in, her eyes twinkling, and spoke quietly in Morrigan’s ear—“what’s your knack? What marvelous talent do you possess?”

  Morrigan blinked. “My what?”

  “Your knack, child. Your clever little skill. Your talent.”

  Morrigan didn’t know what to say.

  “Ah, but I bet our Jupiter has a dramatic reveal planned, doesn’t he?” said Dame Chanda, touching a finger to her nose. “Say no more, my dear. Say no more.”

  “What did she mean?” Morrigan asked Martha as they left the Music Salon and headed down the spiral staircase toward the lobby. “I don’t have a… a knack, or a talent, or anything.”

  Martha laughed, not unkindly. “Course you’ve got a knack. You’re a candidate for the Wundrous Society. You’re Jupiter North’s candidate. He can’t bid on you unless he’s sure you’ve got one.”

  “He can’t?” This was news to Morrigan. “But I don’t—”

  “You do. You just don’t know what it is yet.”

  Morrigan said nothing.

  She thought of the night before—of the wonderful moment when Jupiter had shown up at Crow Manor, the joy she’d felt at the break of dawn when she’d landed safely in the forecourt of the Hotel Deucalion. She’d believed a whole new world had opened up to her. Now she felt as though she were looking at her new life through a wall of unbreakable glass.

  How would she ever get into the Wundrous Society if she had to have some sort of talent?

  “You know, he’s never had a candidate before,” Martha said gently. “He should have by now. They’re all supposed to, once they reach a certain age. And it’s not as if he didn’t have plenty of parents banging on his door, offering him money and favors of all sorts, if he’d only choose their little darlings. You should see the sad cases we get sniffing around here come Bid Day! But he’s always said no. Nobody was ever special enough.” She smiled brightly, reaching out to tuck a lock of black hair behind Morrigan’s ear. “Until now.”